


In The Rain

by GinnyBadWolf



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Based on a scene from Miraculous Ladybug, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gabe POV, Heavy Fluff, I don't know when exactly this takes place but it's when they're still young babs, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Attempts at Humor, Mild Self-Internalized Homophobia, Second person POV, Young!Gabe and Young!Jack, comments are appreciated btw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 10:57:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10358892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GinnyBadWolf/pseuds/GinnyBadWolf
Summary: All it takes is five things: rain, melodrama, somewhat unfortunate circumstances, dog tags, and lots of lying to yourself.Based on the umbrella scene from Miraculous Ladybug episode 26: Origins, part 2.





	

You stare at him from across the room - putting on a pair of basketball shorts and looking at himself in the mirror. He studies his features for a moment, then shrugs and turns away, nonplussed. He stretches a moment, muscles rippling, and you have a near heart attack. 

No. Gabriel Reyes is, in no way, infatuated with Jack Morrison. That is simply untrue. Jack Morrison is a golden boy, far too selfless for his own good, far too good for his own greatness. There’s no way in hell you’re in love with him.

You backtrack.  _ Love?  _ No. That was not even in the previous (and untrue) equation. No, no, no. There’s no way  _ you -  _ an L.A. raised asshat who has trust issues and few boundaries - you, could be in love with Jack  _ motherfucking Morrison.  _

This is something you remind yourself of when you tear your eyes away from his lithe form. Absolutely not. 

Jack crosses the room to meet you, and the smile that rises unbidden remains uncomfortably under strained lock and key. You turn to him, ignoring a leap in your chest as his bright and easy grin, and pretend not to notice that your hoodie is undone, leaving the skin underneath entirely bare. And there is no way in hell you want him to stare at that specific strip of skin in retaliation of his shirt still being a few feet away and pointedly not being worn. Besides, you don’t even realize that’s there in the first place. 

“What,  _ pendejo _ ?” You growl, and he blinks in confusion. You sigh and shut your locker. After all this time, he still doesn’t understand a bit of Spanish. 

He scratches his head and chuckles. “Relax, Gabe. I was just coming over to see if you hurt after I beat your ass in that fight.” You roll your eyes and run a towel through your hair. 

“Please, Jackie.” You respond gruffly. “Your flat ass got beat so much worse than mine.” 

Jack laughs again, and you pretend the jolt in your chest doesn’t exist. “Then what are those bruises on your chest?” He teases, and shoves a playful hand on your exposed skin. Suddenly, your brain erupts with an aneurysm and you die on the spot. The end. 

You gather the strength to respond to this only after he withdraws his hand. The tone of your voice is more strained than usual (and with good reason). “Ah, save it,  _ gringo _ . Take a look at yours, you’re more blue than white.” Some idiotic part of you decides to reciprocate the aneurysm-inducing touch, and you quickly flick his chest with three fingers, not even looking at his face. It feels like your fingers ignite with sparks at the touch and you thank whatever god it is you don’t believe in that your dark skin hides blushes so well. 

A cursory glance at Jack reaps life-ending, aneurysm-inducing, heart-attack-worthy, stroke-instigating results. It takes all of your years of military experience to keep from dropping dead right on the floor (for the second time).

Jack’s cheeks are flushed a light pink that you didn’t see before. A small smile graces his lips and small sparkles in his eyes shine bright. You take your focus away from not dropping dead and instead center it towards not spending your whole remaining lifetime staring at this golden boy right in front of you.

You shake off these thoughts. They’re entirely unbidden and wholly inappropriate, especially towards your inevitably straight best friend, the golden boy who’ll get married one day after retiring and maybe have some kids on a farm and die exactly the same way he was born: golden. Should Jack’s life be an equation, you’re a coefficient - definite, sure, the key to solving the problem maybe, but unmoving in your (platonic) place. The variable is the girl he’s going to fall in love with, and that’s the truth.

A moment of comfortable silence is shared between the both of you, and you finish toweling off your hair. The focus that you spent to stop yourself from staring at Jack is all for naught, because you turn back to him and he still has that  adorable look in his eyes. Neither of you speak, and a fragile connection reaches out in the space between you, and you know that this is going to happen  _ right here, right now, all these people here and in a fucking locker room of all places but  _ **_who cares,_ ** and then someone slams their locker close to you and the connection snaps right in half and you jerk away from where you now realize you were leaning in and  _ oh, shit.  _

Jack starts, and he takes a step back. He scratches the back of his neck, not making eye contact with you. “I, uh -” He gestures to his shirt, laying strewn across the bench only 7.4 feet (you’ve counted) away from where you stand. “I’ll just - uh - get dressed, now… yeah.” He mumbles, and then turns tail. You’ve never seen somebody put on a shirt and shoes so quickly, and you’ve definitely never seen someone casually walk away as quickly either (though ‘casually’ might be a generous word here).

Something hopeful withers in your chest and you clench your fists. Of course not. 

A short 7.4 feet away, something glints on the bench, and you walk over. Jack’s dog tags - taken off before the shower and forgotten in his haste. He never goes without them.

You’re literally wearing basketball shorts and a hoodie with nothing else on, not even your beanie, but  _ fuck it,  _ you’re going after the asshole. Fuck the coefficient, fuck the variable. You can be the variable if you want, if Jack wants. It’s time to stop lying to him and to yourself because suddenly what you know you want is within reach, just so  _ damn close  _ and all you have to do is be brave enough to reach for it. You snatch up the tags in your fist and march in the direction Jack headed in, determined. 

You’ve no idea where he went, but you have a clue. You first look in his room, then your room, then the gym  _ again  _ even though you just showered and left the damn place, then the mess hall, then a few closets, and it’s ages until you actually find him. 

Apparently, it’s raining outside. Once a few windows inform you of this, the drama queen hiding inside Jack appears in your mind and you know he can’t resist a self-pity session when it’s raining, of all things. There’s one place he has to have gone. 

Your feet take you there before you know it, and suddenly you’re on a balcony that’s most certainly not made for use by residents of your status. Golden boy, here? It would seem unlikely if not for Jack’s legendary sulks, which tend to carry him in the most melodramatic place possible despite any rules or regulations. 

You step into the rain, and the first thing you notice is that it’s cold.

It’s chilly out, and cold thin raindrops fall from the sky to slide down your skin. You’d be more chilled if it weren’t for the super serum in your veins, but you still wonder how Jack stands it. 

The man in question, currently leaning against a railing at the farthest edge of the balcony, jumps and turns quickly, raising his fists at you like he’s ready for a fight. Once he realizes it’s you, he lowers them. “Oh,” He murmurs, and the quiet sound is almost drowned out by the perpetual pitter-pattering of raindrops on grass, on cement, on skin. 

At a loss, all and any words you prepared on the way dissipate into the very air. You blink, and then extend your hand with the dog tags clenched in them tightly, holding it out to him. “You forgot these,” You say in a soft voice that you almost don’t believe belongs to you.

Jack’s eyes are filled with gentle befuddlement, as if he is so unsure of what to feel that he can’t even feel confused. He looks at your hand, and then looks up at you once more. You loosen your extended hand, letting the dog tags be displayed for their owner. “Jackie,” You say in a most un-Gabe like fashion, and those words are almost drowned by the rain as well. 

With his eyes still locked on yours, Jack tentatively reaches out his hand for the tags. His fingertip bumps against yours gently, and he withdraws, cautious. A small pink blush dusts Jack’s cheeks, and he looks at you shyly for a moment before his eyes flit back down. He slowly reaches for the tags again. He takes them in his hand and draws back once more, holding them close to himself. You lower your hand. 

The rain runs down your skin freely, quickly, and wets your newly dried hair. It pours down in rivulets on Jack’s wonderstruck face, pale and almost glowing in the dark. His cheeks are still colored that soft pink, and his lips part just the smallest bit as he observes you. 

Somehow, your sunshine is only brightened in the rain, and you take the step, two steps that close the small gap between you two. You grab the hand that holds the dog tags close to his chest and his palm opens for you, the chain pooling across his fingers. You take it back from him one more time, and he stares at you in complete amazement as you put the chain around his neck. 

You can feel his breathing against your collarbone, and everything is still except for the incessant falling of the rain, coming down in cool showers and surrounding the two of you until there’s nothing left but the rain and  _ him. _

Still holding the chain around his neck, you pull him closer to you until you can see raindrops in his closing eyelashes. You pause, just a second, waiting for Jack to pull away if he wants to. Your lips are just millimeters apart from his, so  _ close  _ but not yet touching, when he finally closes the gap.

Jack’s lips are soft, and you loosen your grip on the chain before letting go completely. One of your hands moves to his waist, and the other goes to cup his face. Jack gives a soft sigh into your lips, and you hold him closer as he moves as well, shifting so that he can wrap his arms around your neck. He stands on his tiptoes to do this, and you smile.

You card your hand through his hair, and then clutch onto the damp golden locks tight as you can when he pulls away for a moment, and then returns to you, pressing soft kisses into your lips. It’s sweet and innocent and far too perfect to be happening, far too golden to be for you, far too good to be yours at all. And somehow, it is, so when you part a smile graces his flushed lips and yours as well. All of it is perfect, good, golden, yours. All of Jack. 

When he hides his face in your shoulder and whispers “I love you,” the rain can’t drown it out but it hides out the tear that falls on your cheek. And when you repeat the same “I love you” back to him, nothing can hide the sound of Jack’s golden laugh. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
